


Hexed Holiday

by BlackCatRunning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Caretaking, Cas just wants to rest, Christmas Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley is also done, Curse Breaking, Curses, Dean stans Santa, Destiel if you squint kinda, Gen, How Do I Tag, Humor, I Don't Even Know, Sick Castiel (Supernatural), Sickfic, Sneezing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, but dean says DEAN YESSS, can't believe that last one is a tag that exists lol, sammy is so done, they all say dEAN NO, well..
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCatRunning/pseuds/BlackCatRunning
Summary: Set in Season 9 while Cas is human and staying in the bunker. No Ezekiel!Sam.It all started earlier that morning, with Cas and Dean down on the lower levels of the bunker organizing volatile and breakable cursed objects while Sam sorted manuscripts upstairs. That was his first mistake. Never leave Abbott and Costello alone to handle fragile, dangerous items.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Swearing/cursing, general crackiness, fluff out the wazoo, and the illness side of this is kind of messy/gross for the LOL.

Samuel Winchester, boy wiz-kid, ex-law student, and hunter extraordinaire, likes to think he’s seen it all. Experienced it all. Hell, he’s been hunting practically since he was born and can’t remember a life that was anywhere close to normal. So yeah, he tends to get a little cocky when it comes to dealing with anything under the “weird” category.

But this…

Castiel, humanized angel of the Lord, is slumping bonelessly in one of the bunker’s more comfortable chairs, curled up under a quilt with a red, runny nose, shivery posture, and a feral look in his eyes. Those eyes are trained on Dean, who is skipping…skipping… around Castiel in a Santa hat while throwing bits of sparkly, fake snow that just seemed to materialize out of thin air. The ritual goes on for a few more seconds until Dean leans in and boops Castiel on the nose, sprinkling snow-glitter in his face, and Cas finally loses it.

“DEAN.” His voice is wrecked with his cold, so the name comes out barky and wavering. The fury lasts all of one fleeting moment before his expression weakens and tightens at the same time, and then Cas shakes himself with a sharp sneeze.

The resultant blast of bright blue slime, coating the edge of the quilt and sticking to Cas’s raised hand that didn’t quite make it there in time, is fairly sizeable in proportion to the somewhat delicate sound. Sam once again thanks the universe that Castiel’s weird-ass snot stuff isn’t contagious at all. Just gross. He looks down at himself then, noting that he’s still covered in it. He really needs a shower.

Cas moans from the jostling his sneeze caused, shivering violently.

“Ho, ho, ho-ly shit, Cas!” Dean practically sings, flinging candy canes that spew out of the sleeves of his reindeer sweater. “Someone’s going to be on the naughty list if he doesn’t start covering his mouth soon!”

Castiel looks murderous, his blue eyes almost glowing with anger as he uses a clean bit of quilt to wipe at his nose, but Dean capers out of reach before the smaller man can grab him.

Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It all started earlier that morning, with Cas and Dean down on the lower levels organizing volatile and breakable cursed objects while Sam sorted manuscripts. That was his first mistake. Never leave Abbott and Costello alone to handle fragile, dangerous items.

At the time, Sam thought it was a good idea. The two of them hadn’t had much time to reconcile after the brainwashing, angel-tablet, Naomi debacle, and with Kevin away on his first real (and very needed) proper vacation away from the bunker, Sam figured Dean and Cas could have some catch-up time. They seemed to be on speaking terms, friendly with one another, but Sam just thought he would make sure. Just be certain.

Well, he was certain he regretted everything the moment he heard a thud, crash of something breakable, and Dean’s muffled, “Son of a bitch!” from below. Sam took the stairs two at a time as he jogged down, swinging himself around the banister to find Dean hovering guiltily and Cas laying on the ground. Dean had on a satin Santa hat, of all things, and Cas was covered in what looked like frosty goop.

Before Sam could even ask, Dean growled an embarrassed explanation, tugging at the poof ball at the end of his hat. “I thought it would be fun to put on for a second, to show Cas.” He tugged harder, reaching up to try and yank up the rim and slide it off. The hat seemed stuck to his head. “Now it won’t come off.”

“Where’d you even find that?” Sam asked, frowning. He didn’t know of any Christmas decorations inside the bunker. “It’s July, dude.”

Dean shrugged, non-committal, and looked down toward Cas. The ex-angel was holding his hands away from himself, trying to keep the blue-ish, gooey stuff from touching anything or anyone else.

When Sam leaned down to help him up, Cas flinched away. “This substance is dangerous,” he said, voice gravelly. “You will not want to touch it.”

Sam’s concern clicked up about five notches, and he kneeled near Cas to try and get a better look at the stuff. It didn’t look like ectoplasm; it had a thicker consistency, almost like mucus in the way it slid slowly down Cas’s skin and clung to his clothes. It sparkled electric blue, the color of toilet cleaner, and smelled tangy-sweet.

“Where did this come from?” he asked. It was better to get the information first before he panicked. No use in panicking before he knew the whole story. This stuff could be harmless, no matter what Cas’s opinions of it were.

“After Dean realized he could not remove the hat, he began to flail wildly and knocked over the jar holding this substance,” Cas told him gravely, eyes trailing down to the bright blue goop all over him. It almost matched the color of his eyes. “I have suspicions about its effects.”

Sam looked over his shoulder to glare at Dean, but then froze at his brother’s expression. He had that slightly slack “O” face he adopted when he was gently confused about something. Though now it was mixed with… boyish wonder?

“Uh,” Sam said. “Dean?”

“Sammy, I feel…” Dean opened and closed his hands, fisting and unfisting, suddenly and completely stir crazy. “Egg nog. I need egg nog.” And with that, Dean practically threw himself up the stairs. Sam, a little slack-jawed, couldn’t look away even after Dean was long out of eye-shot.

His attention jerked back to Castiel when the ex-angel clicked an uncertain breath through his nose, shuddered from a nasty chill, and then crunched inward with a soft, but forceful, sneeze.

Sam immediately put his hand to a dry patch on Castiel’s back, patting him a few times. He tried not to smile at the downright adorable sound of it. Nothing like Dean’s clipped roars or Sam’s own long, robust waah’chooo’s.

“Hey, bless you,” he said, distracted by the way Cas kept his face wrinkled and dreading, clearly still feeling something itchy and rising at the back of his nose.

Sam waited a moment, and was rewarded with another sneeze and reflexive flinch inward.

“Bless you, Cas.” Geez, now Sam was getting worried. Castiel had never sneezed before in his life, as far as Sam knew, and now two in a row? Damn, he was even gearing up for a third one. It seemed paramount – the sneeze to end the series.

“ahd’CHSSHH!”

“Bless you, Castiel,” Sam said, firm. He patted his back a few more times, looking for another dry spot to grab so he could help hoist him up. “I…didn’t know you could do that. Are you okay?”

Cas got to his feet, unsteady, and seemed suddenly pale under the bunker’s dank lighting. Sam thought it might be the blue mucus all over him. Weary, Cas rubbed his face with his hands and tried to wipe off some of the excess.

“Sneezing is such a bizarre sensation,” he said, looking down at his wet palms before searching to wipe them somewhere on his pants. He ended up slicking them against his back pockets, sniffling with a wet edge as he did so. “I'm not sure I like it.”

With a quick appraisal, Sam deemed Cas’s left elbow dry enough to touch and grabbed it to start leading him down the hall. It would be best to get the poor guy into the shower to rinse the substance off of him if it was harmful, even if Sam was intensely curious as to what it could be. The smell seemed to be making Castiel sneeze, if he wasn’t mistaken, as the ex-angel continued to snuffle as they walked.

“What exactly is that stuff?” Sam asked. They rounded another corner after coming up the stairs, Dean nowhere to be found, and little brother Winchester logged that away to worry about after Castiel was sorted out.

“Without my grace, I am unable to…to prop-…” 

Castiel trailed off, his pace slowing to a stop as his breath deepened. The sneezes came like a one-two punch, winding him. Castiel sighed out a noise that wasn’t exactly a groan, but seemed to be an utterance of collection as he got his bearings. Another sniffle, sounding much wetter than the ones from before, and they both started walking again. Sam smiled in sympathy. With rampant spring allergies, he knew how annoying this thing could be.

“Bless you, man,” he said. When Cas gave him a puzzled frown, Sam elaborated. “It’s just a tradition. Sort of like wishing good health on someone.” He found it strange that Castiel, an angel who had been watching earth morph and form since the beginning of time, would not know that. Then again, there had probably been more important things to catalogue than sneezing etiquette.

Castiel’s expression faded, softening as he ruminated, but Sam didn’t let the silence stand long. “What were you saying, before?”

“Oh,” Cas said, nodding and sniffling. “I am unable to properly determine an aura.”

“Aura? For the…?” Sam gestured to the blue gloop, which left a slug trail on the floor behind them. Someone would have to clean it later. Castiel nodded again.

“Usually I can sense benevolent or malevolent intent from substances, given their aura,” he said, dropping his eyes to the floor. “But I seem to have lost that ability.”

Sam chuffed his hand along Castiel’s back, carefully avoiding the muck. They were now outside the hall bathroom, and Cas gingerly picked his way inside, trying to keep the tile as clean as he could.

“No worries,” Sam said. “Just clean up and I’ll start digging.”

As he closed the door and made his way back to the study, dodging and frowning at the slime slicking the wood, Sam was actually daring to hope nothing too bad would come from this. Just a Santa hat. Some mysterious blue goo. Nothing too grim. But then again, since when had he ever had any good luck? The Winchesters were more likely to win the lottery than to get the benefit of the supernatural doubt.

He picked up his pace.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Thirty minutes and no leads later, Sam couldn’t decide whether to be alarmed that there was no immediate information, or relieved that this could be harmless enough not to warrant any records. Cleaning the floor had taken up most of Sam’s time thus far, but a quick internet search provided no decent results.

He was just about to start rooting through the library when he heard padding bare feet against wood. For a moment, he thought it was Dean before he realized it was instead the shower-warm footfalls of an ex-angel. Speaking of which, where was Dean? Sam needed to find him, but he was already cleaning, decontaminating, researching, and on Castiel-watch for any bad signs.

At least a few of those efforts were going well. Castiel peeked into the room, coming in after, looking damp and much cleaner than he had been half an hour ago. He was still toweling his hair dry, scrubbing, as he stood in the doorway.

“Hey, how you feeling?” Sam asked. Castiel smiled and gave a dry, healthy sniff.

“Much better. Thank you, Sam.” Here, Cas paused to sweep the room and then fixed Sam with a similarly searching look. “Where is Dean?”

“Beats me,” Sam shrugged, though he couldn’t quite shake the uncomfortable feeling of dread given his brother’s absence. “Did he say he was getting egg-nog earlier? Maybe a food run.”

The answer did not appease Castiel, and he looped his towel over his shoulders as he cast a look above toward the surface, the world above the bunker. He didn’t say anything, but his expression communicated his concerns clearly enough. Rather than panic (no panicking, Winchester!), Sam instead motioned for Cas to take a seat at the table while he rustled up something to eat. Being human was still new to Cas, so he often forgot to eat full meals throughout the day.

As he grabbed a few cans from a top shelf, Sam pulled out his phone and scrolled to Dean’s number. Might as well see if the moron managed to grab his cell before his impromptu food run. Sam didn’t expect Dean to pick up on the first ring.

“Sammy!” He sounded absolutely cheery. It made Sam automatically suspicious.

“Dude, where are you?”

“Down at the outlet mall,” he said, as if it were something Sam should know. “They have this awesome little craft shop that’s still selling wreathes. Wreathes, Sammy. And in really good shape too. Hot damn.”

Sam stood frozen, halfway through can-opening a tin of peaches. Was this a joke? It had to be. His laugh was sudden, verging on nervous. “Uh. Right. Okay.” Cas sniffed from behind him, forceful, and sounded a little wetter than he had before. “No, really, where are you?”

“I told you,” Dean said. He sounded distracted, and his next comment was faint, like he was holding the phone to his chest. “Yeah, I’ll take three. Oh, and that little elf thing, there. Yeah, thanks.”

“Dean!” Sam screeched.

“What?” He sounded normal-volume again, but more irritated.

“Are you seriously buying Christmas decorations? In July?”

“Never too early,” Dean said. Sam could hear the bustling of bags, the persistent beeps of a scanning register. This was either a huge farce, or that Santa hat-.. wait.

“Are you still wearing that hat?” Sam asked. Castiel sniffled again, decidedly much more liquid than before, and without paying much attention, Sam snatched a few paper napkins and pushed them Cas’s way. “The Santa hat, Dean. Are you wearing it?”

“Course I am!” Dean said, sounding offended. Sam turned around, setting down the can of peaches and watching Castiel prepare for what looked like an absolutely galaxy-shaking sneeze. The scent of the goop was probably still sticking to him, so it made sense he might be at it for a little while longer.

“Then finish up and come home,” Sam said, resolving to take Dean’s keys as soon as he was back safe in the bunker.

“All right, all right,” Dean conceded, sounding gruff. “I have some cooking to do anyway.”

Cooking? Sam briefly wondered if that meant he was going to be poisoned by Christmas cookies, by the way this was going so far, but he pushed the thought out of mind in favor of less lethal speculations.

“Okay, just hurry up,” Sam muttered to Dean, and then ended the call. 

He sat his phone on the counter, turned toward Castiel, and was utterly unprepared for the insanely loud sneeze that came from him a second later. It was comically massive, and there was a wave of thick blue goop as Cas lost his balance on the stool and then toppled onto the floor. Sam stood in complete shock, covered from head to toe in exactly the same slop Castiel had been slathered in earlier that morning. Well, almost the same. It seemed less sparkly.

The entire surface of the table was slicked with it, and streams of it adorned the sink and counter around Sam, dripping. Like someone popped a giant balloon of the stuff. Before he acknowledged the mess, the young Winchester first resolved to pick poor Cas up off the floor, fearing the man may have bruised something.

“Dammit. Cas?” Sam asked, squatting on the floor beside him. Castiel had managed to avoid covering himself in the goo, thankfully. Given the trajectory of the sneeze, it made sense he would be clean. Sam cupped a hand to Cas’s cheek, frowning when he found it a little cool. His eyes were open, but foggy. Castiel started trying to get up, but Sam put a firm hand to his chest.

“Hey, stay down a second,” he said, eyeing him. Cas didn't look like he'd gotten hurt, thankfully. He still had a bit of congestion, despite all he had sneezed out, and Sam watched him sniffle hard against it. Castiel seemed paler suddenly, nose a vibrant pink. Like he had been sick for well over a day, when in reality it hadn’t been more than an hour.

“Okay, I think you were right,” Sam conceded, sitting back and helping Cas sit up once he figured things were as good as they were getting. “This stuff is rank.”

He watched his friend for a moment, feeling panicky when Cas’s nose wrinkled. They did not need a repeat of whatever just happened, which Sam still needed to properly address. Hell, he could be infected with whatever Cas now had, since he was sheeted with the stuff.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. If Castiel’s lungs were freezing solid or his kidneys were shutting down, Sam needed to know about it. Dean would roast him alive if Castiel keeled over on his watch, not to mention Sam really liked the little guy and didn’t want to see him die. Again.

Castiel gave his head a little shake, carding through sensations, attempting to file them all into their proper places. “I think my tailbone is bruised.”

“Well, that’s probably a given,” Sam said with a tiny smile.

“My throat feels hot. And swollen..”

Sam thought this over and decided Castiel was breathing well enough to not be in the danger zone. “Okay, anything else?”

“Uh,” Cas said, squinting patiently at a point past Sam’s left shoulder. After a moment, he cocked his head. “I’m suddenly chilled, despite my warm shower.”

Without a second thought, Sam wiped his hand on a clean patch of his shirt. Then he reached up and pressed his palm to Castiel’s forehead, finding it just as cold as his cheek had been. So it wasn’t a fever, but an actual drop in body temperature. Hm. Resolving to get some blankets and set Castiel up in the study by the fire, Sam put his hand back on his knee.

“That all?”

“My nose seems the most troublesome,” Castiel admitted, sniffling. There didn’t seem to be any serious congestion, but instead a constant runny-nose issue. Sam stood and fished a napkin, remembering them only at that moment, and squatted by Castiel again. Taking the offering, Cas dabbed a little at his face, not entirely grasping the use of the thing.

“I am leaking,” he told Sam, grave. It made the Winchester quirk a bigger smile, even though the situation was rather dire. Castiel narrowed his eyes, not amused by Sam’s mirth. To make his point, Castiel sniffled yet again. His expression grew a little weak, and Sam hurriedly snatched the napkin from Cas to press to the man’s runny nose himself. If every sneeze was going to yield a storm of-…whatever this was, Sam couldn’t chance them going off without at least a little cover.

“When it gets to be too much and you have to sneeze, make sure to cover your face, okay?” Sam said, letting Castiel take the napkin from him once again. He took a second to pantomime blowing his nose, and Cas creased his face in concentration to perform the action a moment later.

While Cas finished cleaning up, Sam heaved a sigh and got to his feet. Step one, set Castiel up in a sick bed. Step two, wash off. Step three, clean kitchen. Step four, figure out what the heck was wrong with his brother and their retired angel. Before he could help Cas up himself, the man got to his feet with sudden vigor. A hand flashed out and gripped Sam’s bicep, those blue eyes electric with an epiphany.

“Sam! I remember now!” he said, voice still rough but carrying an emphatic tone. He had balled up his used napkin in his other fist. “I am disappointed in myself for overlooking the possibility.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose, and it was a testament to Castiel’s increasing human-ness that he didn’t beat around the bush, say something annoyingly vague, or just sprint down the hall to do something reckless without consultation.

“It’s the essence of Jack Frost.” Castiel gestured to Sam’s sopping, slimy state. “It permeated my skin, and now I am carrying it.”

Sam stood there, feeling kind of cold and gross but mostly confused. “Uh, what?”

“The blue substance in the jar was Jack Frost’s residue,” he explained, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “By absorbing its properties, I am now displaying its abilities. Curious, though. I must be having a negative reaction to it, given my… oh-..”

Castiel’s breath jagged, growing erratic, and he just managed to snatch his forgotten bath towel off the ground before he shook with a sneeze. It was pitifully small and dainty compared to the tsunami he set off earlier. Still, when Castiel pulled away from the fabric, there was a stain of gloop there. He pointed frantically, still sniffling.

“See? I’m producing what is likely to mature into-..” The urge came on him faster than before, and he staggered into his towel with two of them in a row. Apparently their vigor was a little too much for Cas to handle. Sam lunged forward to catch him as he swooned, light-headed and looking paler by the minute. With a thrill of fear, the Winchester would even swear he was a tiny bit grey. If anything, he was getting colder for sure. Step one of Sam’s plan seemed immediately dire, and he started steering Cas toward the study.

“Can you die from this?” Might as well get the most important questions out of the way. Castiel shook his head.

“Impossible.”

“Can I catch this…whatever it is, from you?”

“No, my emissions are…” Castiel paused, and a shiver juddered down his spine. Sam’s forehead creased with concern. “…They are harmless.”

“Okay,” Sam said, mind whirring. “Okay.” In summary: Cas couldn’t die from his Jack Frost Flu or whatever, and no one could catch it from him in the meanwhile. Another shudder zipped through the smaller man as they walked, and Sam pursed his lips. Maybe not deadly or contagious, but the illness seemed uncomfortable. “We’re putting you in the armchair to warm up, all right?”

Castiel nodded, arms wrapped around himself as he began to quiver in earnest. Sam could feel the jerks under his fingers where they gripped Cas’s shoulders. His breath was already a little irregular from the shivering, so Sam started in surprise when Cas suddenly sneezed. He did so again in his towel, sighing and wiping blue goo from his nostrils. It was pretty disgusting, but it wasn’t Castiel’s fault he was like this. Sniffling hard and fast, he growled.

“It won’t stop leaking,” he said, punctuating it with a couple soft coughs. “This is frustrating.”

“Doesn’t sound fun to me,” Sam said. They entered the study and Castiel dropped immediately into the comfortable armchair, curling up as he quaked with the cold. Even in the summer, the bunker did actually run cooler than a normal house would due to its being under ground, but Sam suspected even a house at 74 degrees Fahrenheit wouldn’t be enough for Cas right now.

He crouched by the fire, his clothes stiff from drying goop. It had gotten firm enough not to track through the house as he walked, so there was that. From behind him, he heard yet another one of Castiel’s soft, breathy sneezes. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any more of those crazy tidal wave ones any time soon.

Sam got the fire going and got to his feet, moving behind Castiel’s chair and using his knee and body weight to push it closer to the flames. It screeched across the floor, making Cas wince from the noise. After throwing some quilts over the ex-angel and fetching him two boxes of tissues (he had started with one, but Castiel insisted he needed another), Sam dubbed step one complete.

Before he could start on step two, Dean busted in wearing a Christmas sweater, juggling three armfuls of plastic bags, and grinning like a maniac. And that damn Santa hat was still perched happily on his head.

“Holly jolly jingle bells, little brother!” he crowed, just as Sam rounded the corner to get a good look at him. “I got the egg nog!”

Sam never felt so terrified.


	2. The Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It tastes like Christmas."
> 
> “Dean, my throat hurts. I don’t want to eat that.”
> 
> Sam doesn’t either, to be honest. The thing looks about as bendy as a brick, and less tasty than one too. 
> 
> “It’s not Christmas if you don’t at least try the damn cookie."

Leaving Dean and Castiel to their devices while he showers is actually harder than Sam thought it would be, given his brother’s buoyant enthusiasm and Cas’s sudden and understandable grumpiness. The shivering has not stopped, no matter how close he gets to the fire, and the runny nose is a near constant annoyance. Nothing about it seems comfortable, and Castiel confirms this with every groan or grumble he lets escape during his time curled up in the armchair. Dean’s relentless Christmas-in-July joy won’t be tempered by anything, however, so Sam tentatively leaves him to bake Santa cookies in the kitchen while he washes off and changes.

After emerging from the steamy bathroom and into the drafty hall, Sam wishes for more than one reason he had just stayed in the tub.

“Eat it, Cas,” Dean’s saying. “Eat the magic.”

“Dean,” Castiel barks, voice gritty and nose still leaky, judging by the way he sniffles. Sam peeks around the corner and sees Cas sitting there, a sort of hazy look in his eyes as he shivers, while Dean thrusts and waves a brittle-looking blob around in his face. When it gets too close to his nose, Castiel swats at it.

“It tastes like Christmas,” Dean pouts, offended Cas doesn’t want his cookie. Sam rests his forehead on the doorframe, sighing. Clearly Dean’s not going to be any help this hunt, and even if Cas lends a hand (and he probably would if asked), he probably wouldn't be much help either.

“Dean, my throat hurts,” Cas tells him, almost pleading without asking to just be left the hell alone. “I don’t want to eat that.”

Sam doesn’t either, to be honest. The thing looks about as bendy as a brick, and less tasty than one too. He can’t decide whether to swoop in and save Cas or not because doing so would likely offer him up as next Cookie-Taste-Tester, and that wasn’t high on Sam’s list of to-do’s today.

“It’s not Christmas if you don’t at least try the damn cookie,” Dean argues. Castiel’s brow trenches, frowning as he tries to follow his reasoning, but soon his eyes get wide as Dean shoves the cookie in his face again. It bumps Cas on the nose and so he smacks it out of Dean’s grip on reflex. It goes sailing across the room and hits a wall. It doesn’t even break. Sam’s glad no one tried to eat it. No one here needs a broken tooth on top of the shit-heap they have going for them currently.

“Cas!” Dean yips, scandalized. “That was made with love, you asshole!”

“You have very firm love, Dean,” Cas replies, and Sam can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. The two square off with a staring contest for a few moments until Cas’s eyes begin to flutter with that oh-so-becoming-familiar expression. Dean must be used to it too at this point because he doesn’t even pause.

“If you don’t shape up your act, Santa’s gonna bring you jack-squat,” he warns. Castiel snatches up a few tissues just as his breath crests, and he snaps forward into the tent of his hands with a sneeze. Dean continues to lecture him. “And I’m not sharing my toys with you, just so you know.”

Cas tries to keep eye contact, but his nose won’t quit, so he fumbles for more tissues and doubles over again. Dean prepares to deliver another berating remark, but Sam decides Cas has had enough and ducks in to save him. 

“Just let it go, man. He’s sick.”

The older Winchester looks over at Sam with a flourish, the ball on his Santa hat whipping dramatically. He didn’t notice it before, but now Sam sees that Dean has changed into an another extremely tacky Christmas sweater – (it has a kitten wearing an elf hat on it, with the words 'Meowy Christmas' stitched in tinsel across the bottom) – and has on striped socks. He’s got such a prissy, pissed look on his face that Sam thinks he needs a picture of Dean like this for future leverage.

“Exactly,” Dean snipes. “Christmas heals everything. He’d get better if he just ate my cookie.”

Castiel either supports or refutes Dean's assertion by sneezing again. Sam keeps eye contact with Dean, but does offer Castiel a cursory, “Bless you,” to which he receives a very breathless, stuffy, “thangs” and then another sneeze.

“Dean, look,” Sam hedges as Cas tends to his nose with another onslaught of tissues. Many are soaked with blue goop already and are scattered in disarray across the floor. “I think you need to drop the Christmas thing for five seconds.”

Dean’s eyes sharpen with an almost crazy gleam and he leans forward toward Sam, taking his brother by the shoulders. “Christmas is everything, Sammy,” he whispers, unblinking. He leans even closer. “Christmas is life.”

There is a tense silence, and Sam gets a very bad feeling. Like Dean might just murder him with a sharp candy cane if he jeopardizes this holiday. In the quiet of the room, Castiel gasps and sneezes again, pitching forward into a handful of tissues.

Sam tries to smile, reaching up to pat Dean’s hands. “All right, man,” he says. “It was just a suggestion.” Better to agree with the homicidal Christmas elf and investigate later than chance a killing spree.

“Are you patronizing me?” Dean growls, hands tightening. Sam blinks.

“Come again?”

“Are you,” Dean repeats. He sounds steely. “Patronizing me?”

Castiel squeaks through another sneeze, sniffling in the aftermath.

“Dude, no, of course not, what the hell,” Sam snaps, trying to shake off Dean’s grip. He’s not so much scared as he is just plain done. While thankful this isn’t a more serious curse, Sam’s not stoked about the level of bitchiness that Dean’s packing right now.

“You don’t even believe, do you?!”

“Believe in what, Dean?”

“SANTA CLAUS.”

Yet another forceful sneeze from Castiel, this time followed by a moan.

Sam’s eyes flick to him, growing wary. Cas is down to his precious last few tissues, and clearly the fit isn't stopping. The sneezes are only getting heavier, in fact. Then Sam starts to notice some other things about Castiel, and his heart plummets straight to his toes. Over the last few minutes, Castiel’s skin has paled to a marbled, greyish color, almost light blue, and his has hair faded to a bright, snowy white. The shivering tremors seem to have stopped, but on every exhale Cas’s breath fogs on the air. It isn’t enough that Castiel got infected with Jack Frost; now he looks like him too.

“Holy shit, Cas,” Sam says, dropping conversation with Dean so he can hover over Castiel’s armchair. When he lays the back of his hand against Cas’s cheek, it takes his breath away. “You’re freezing!”

Cas shies away from Sam, squirming uncomfortably. “Your hand feels extremely warm,” he says, still holding tissues over his nose. His fingers are not purpling with frostbite, and Sam thinks he sounds irritated, not in pain. With his legs, Castiel begins kicking off his blankets.

“Are these side-effects of the curse?” Sam asks, trying to fight the instinct to bundle Cas up and toss him in bed. He and Dean had soldiered through hypothermia on more than one occasion; this feels so frightfully similar.

“It’s…” Cas pauses, his eyes beginning to close and tighten. Sam doesn’t need to see his entire expression to know what’s coming, and he almost dives out of the way. He’s halfway there when Castiel sighs, relaxes, and lowers the tissues. “It’s likely.”

Dean just gives up on them and stomps away, vowing that he would make them understand. Sam can’t spare two shits about him because Castiel is getting that long-suffering look of another mounting sneeze, and Sam has a feeling this one is going to be worse than the last. His expression echoes the face he'd made in the kitchen, just before that unfortunate explosion.

“Okay,” he says, grabbing Castiel by the front of his shirt and hauling him up. The smaller man stumbles into Sam, dizzy from illness, and the chill of his body bleeds through Sam’s clothes. It send a thrill of worry down his spine. “We might need to get you outside.”

Castiel folds into Sam’s chest for a second as he gets his balance back, cheek just over Sam’s sternum, and the young Winchester wonders if this is what it’s like to have a baby brother. The surge of protective instinct shuttling through him is almost overwhelming, and it’s different from what he feels toward Dean. Maybe it’s because Castiel seems younger, smaller, than them both. Even though they all know he’s much older and bigger than they would ever know.

“Why outside?” Castiel croaks, winded from sneezing and now fighting with a sore throat too. He coughs.

“Because,” Sam says, gesturing, “I can tell tissues aren't going to cut it this time.”

Castiel looks like he wants to argue, but then his nose gives an irritated twitch and he concedes with a delicate sniffle that yes, Sam's probably right.

Looping an arm around Cas’s back, Sam hefts him out of the study and toward the main room, heading for the stairs that will lead up and outside. Even with the buffer of clothing between them, the chill in Castiel’s skin is intense. Every breath puffs out white as fog, with the scent of winter. The white hair and icy skin give the sick man a ghostly, otherworldly appearance, and it’s actually a little intimidating.

After only a few seconds of walking with Sam, Castiel gets squirmy and by the time they get to the stairs, Sam is having a hard time hanging onto him.

“Cas,” Sam grunts, trying to rein him in. The Winchester notices the delicate beads of sweat ringed along Castiel’s brow, the damp spots at the collar of his shirt, and hastens Cas to stand still. Castiel isn’t having it. He jerks free, panting.

“Sam, you’re making me hot,” he says. Sam thinks that Dean would have made a lewd joke, had he been there for it. Cas pulls at his shirt, about to yank it over his head when the sneeze takes him under and he heaves in a grimacing gasp.

“Cas, no!” Sam leaps at him, determined to get outside first. Otherwise it would be another snot storm or (Sam is expecting) worse. He trucks it up the stairs like a steam engine, Sam half-dragging Castiel. He can feel the frosty gust of Castiel’s breath beside him. It’s so cold, like a biting north wind.

They burst out of the bunker into the summer afternoon, the heat immediately stifling and the cicadas droning down by the roadside. Castiel wrenches away from Sam and with only a second’s pause to gather what sounds like a titanic inhale, Castiel snaps forward with a sneeze. It's practically a roar, but surprisingly most of it is drowned out by the sound of rushing wind. There’s a tornado of movement, a freezing rush of air, and Sam’s suddenly looking at an icy, snowy walkway and lawn. Jack Frost is right, he thinks. Cas literally just sneezed a snowstorm out of summer air.

Sam is very, very grateful they went outside for this.

Castiel closes his eyes closed and groans, starts sagging, so Sam moves one arm to lasso around his waist, the other wrapping around his chest to keep him grounded. Looking around at the landscape, he can see that ice has collected on the trees nearby, the snow almost two feet deep. Even though it’s still blistering hot outside, it looks more like a bright winter day than a summer one. The whiteness of the snow is actually hurting his eyes.

“Damn,” he says, quietly awed. He’s seen weirder shit than this if he’s being honest, so he’s not so much freaked as he is impressed. “Bless you, Cas.”

Castiel just sighs, still supported by Sam’s grip and not keen on standing up by himself any time soon. He’s catching his breath, and seems hopelessly light-headed, so they both just hang onto one another for a while. Dean, naturally, chooses this moment to peek outside. And he nearly blows out Sam’s eardrums with a shriek. Castiel’s hands flash up to cover his ears, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“SAMMY IT IS SNOWING,” Dean shouts, elbowing past Sam and throwing himself onto the ground. It might actually be Cas’s frozen, crystalized snot that he’s rolling around in, but Sam’s irritated with Dean right now and decides not to tell him that. There’s a tug on his sleeve and Sam glances down, only to be met with exhausted, red-rimmed eyes.

“Sam,” Castiel says, and Sam does not like how weak his voice sounds. His frosty white hair is sticking to his forehead, and he looks out of it. Dammit, he said this curse-thing couldn’t kill him! Castiel mutters something, but Sam can’t hear him over the nuisance of his brother.

“SAMMY,” Dean continues, still using a voice much too loud for the circumstances. Sam is only like a few feet away, geez. “I TOLD YOU SANTA WAS REAL I TOLD YOU.”

“Dean, shut up for a second, please.” Then Sam tends to Cas again, leaning down toward him to hear better. “What, Cas?”

Castiel licks his lips again, eyes falling closed as a tiny frown forms across his brow. Which Sam now sees is absolutely slicked with sweat. In fact, Castiel is practically sweating through his clothing right now.

“Too hot,” Cas says, rolling his shoulders. “Too hot out here…”

Alarm bells go off in Sam’s head because of course. If Castiel’s lugging around the spirit of Jack Frost, it would make sense that warm places wouldn't agree with him. He could be on the verge of heatstroke. Judging by the hot, sticky feeling to Castiel’s shirt and pants right now, they’re pretty much on top of it.

“SNOW ANGELS,” Dean screeches, flailing wildly as he sends flurries of snow up around him. “LOOK AT ME GO BABY.” The snow’s already melting and Sam doesn’t want to be around when it’s all gone and Dean’s just crawling around in the mud. Besides, he needs to get Cas into an ice-bath or something. So he scoops Cas up like a bride and slips back inside, slamming the door behind him. Think, think, Winchester, he thinks to himself. Castiel needs a place that can keep him cool but also won’t get destroyed by another ridiculous snow-sneeze.

In his arms, Castiel squirms. Sam’s acutely aware of how uncomfortable he is while so close – not personal-space related, but instead due to how warm Sam must be. Cas certainly feels like an icicle to him, anyway.

Think, think, Winchester.

As Sam dashes into the bathroom and lowers a fussy, overheated Castiel carefully into the tub, the idea hits him.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

“You can’t be serious,” Crowley complains.

Oh, but he is. After Sam got Castiel out of his thick clothes, cooled him down in the tub, and poured a water tank’s amount of cranberry juice down his throat, he hauled Cas down here. Into the dungeon. It is acceptably drafty, and Sam turned up the AC a little more as they passed the thermostat. If Cas gets his sneeze on, the temperature would plummet in no time.

Crowley would live, probably.

Castiel leans against the wall by one of the shelves, barefoot and pale enough in the lighting to look somewhat spectral. If not for the sleepy cast to his eyes and the irritable, red skin around his nose, at least. His condition has generally improved, but now Castiel no longer has a runny nose but a very stuffy one. His bluish lips are gently parted to breathe, and every so often he will try and drag an inhale past what must be supernaturally blocked nasal passages. Sam likes to think he has snowdrifts packed into his sinuses.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Sam asks. Crowley stares from where he always sits, chained to that uncomfortable chair, and then his gaze flicks to Castiel when the ex-angel huffs. 

There is a brief pause, during which Castiel hovers a hand in the air near his mouth. Then he crunches forward with a sneeze. It sounds wet and clogged and Crowley makes a very unhappy face. Sam did not bother explaining to him why Castiel needs to stay down here, but Crowley is old and worldly enough to put the pieces together.

“You know as well as I that he’s sneezing himself up to another damn storm,” Crowley snaps through gritted teeth. “And when that happens, I will be sitting in the tundra.”

Sam shrugs, arms crossed. “Unless you know how to fix this, deal with it.” He’s really not in the mood to deal with two whiny brats. Dean’s already a handful. Hell, Castiel’s the one who truly deserves to be a little monster today, and he’s been (pun not intended) an angel in comparison. Sam watches Castiel thankfully, praising his good behavior with a silent appreciation, and then smirks when Cas wrinkles his nose up and bobs his head with another sneeze.

“He’s disgusting!” Crowley growls.

Castiel glares in reply, swiping an arm beneath his nose to itch at it. Most of his decorum and dignity had fallen by the wayside over the course of the afternoon, and by this point, near evening, Cas cannot bother to give a damn.

Sam turns to Castiel, puppy dog eyes in full effect. “Is he going to bother you, Cas?”

Castiel and Crowley never got along even as angel and demon, let alone as human and sort-of-human. And now Castiel is capable of feeling things he never could before. Crowley might actually have the power to hurt his feelings. Factory-Setting Castiel was a stubborn, slightly bumbling, badass motherfucker. Human Castiel, to Sam, suddenly seems a delicate flower.

But it would appear his concern is misplaced because Castiel gives him a confused, perhaps ruffled, expression. His voice is heavy with congestion. “Not more than usual…”

“Oh, I can tell you which one of us is going to be most bothered by this,” Crowley mutters darkly. “And it’s not the sickly little bird over there.”

Convinced everything will be relatively okay, Sam resolutely ignores Crowley and gets Cas situated on a comfortable cot in the corner. Even though Sam is already starting to shiver from the chill in the dungeon, for the first time today Castiel is perfectly content. He curls up on his cot without a blanket and yawns, which makes Sam get that weird protective instinct all stirred up again. He fights the urge to ruffle Cas’s hair, because that would be too much.

As he turns to leave, Castiel catches the edge of his shirt. “Sam?”

Sam glances over his shoulder, brows raised. “Yeah?”

Cas sneezes against the inside of his forearm, blinking a few times with a squinted expression before he speaks. “Thank you.”

Sam smiles as Cas lets go of him. “No worries.”

The last thing Sam hears as he ducks out of the dungeon and closes the doors behind him is Crowley saying, “I miss Hell.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Sam finds Dean in the kitchen chugging egg nog, soaked and covered from head to toe in mud. At least Castiel’s sneeze-snow melts very quickly, from what Sam can gather. The younger Winchester lingers by the door, taking steadying breaths. Cas’s is asleep downstairs, hopefully on the mend or at least plateauing. Dean, a mess though he is, has higher spirits than he did before the romp in the snow. His eyes do seem a little dazzled though. And that smile is a bit unbalanced.

Sam will find a way to cure both of them. He always does.

“Sammy!” Dean says, startling his younger brother. He comes over with his arms outstretched for a bear hug, and Sam back-peddles. Dean’s filthy boots leave tracks on the kitchen tile, and wow isn’t that great, Sam just cleaned in there. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says around a smile, trying to duck out of any muddy embraces Dean plans to inflict on him. Dean’s Santa Hat is caked in dirt, the red and white satin hardly discernible anymore. They dance around for a moment before Sam is herded into a corner, leaning on the counter, with Dean leering. He can count the times on one hand when Dean has managed to successfully leer over him.

“Something you want?” Sam asks slowly, eyes wide. Dean just leans even closer, and Sam is both fascinated and perturbed to notice Dean’s breath smells just like pine. Like he brushed his teeth with a friggin’ Christmas tree. What the hell.

“My angel, Sammy,” Dean breathes in a husky voice Sam quickly decides he doesn’t like at all. “My snow-bringing, cookie-throwing, north-pole-up-his-ass fallen Christmas angel.” His eyes dart around as if he expects Castiel to spring out from behind a corner at any moment. “I need him.”

“Dean, for what?”

Dean clamps his hands on Sam’s shoulders, a crazy glint in his eyes. “TO BE MY MRS. CLAUS, SAMMY. IF I’M GONNA FINISH MY TRANSFORMATION INTO ‘OLE CHRIS KRINGLE I OBVIOUSLY NEED A MRS. CLAUS.”

Sam feels like he’s dropped into another reality constructed by a well-meaning, but torturous, archangel-trickster. Is this actually happening?

“B-But,” he stammers, and that’s as far as he gets. Dean slaps a hand over his mouth, making Sam jump, and lowers his voice to a whisper.

“No, shh, shh. Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says, elated. “You get to be Rudolph. Who else is gonna lead my sleigh? Just don’t tell Crowley he’s the Grinch. And when Kevin gets back, he’ll be our elf.”

Dean sounds like he’s got this all figured out, and it alarms Sam that the cursed hat has gotten his brother this nutty without him really noticing. He’d been so worried about Cas, he forgot about how bad Dean might get in the meanwhile... Whoops. Dean continues, now looking wistfully into the distance over Sam’s shoulder.

“I’m going to take that angel and have him cover the entire state of Kansas in snow,” he says, grinning, and Sam wants nothing more than to get Dean as far away from Cas as possible because this is just getting creepy. “Gotta have a white Christmas, after all.”

Oh, shit. Dean’s totally bonkers. Sam keeps his gaze steady, casually reaching back behind him to feel around for a blunt object on the counter. Anything to knock Dean out for a while so Sam can get a handle on the situation.

Dean still has a hand over Sam’s mouth when he leans back to look over his shoulder at the basement stairs, and Sam uses the distraction to crack Dean across the head with a frying pan. The sound is loud and Dean goes down immediately in an unconscious heap. Sam feels only a teeny bit bad about it, chest heaving with adrenaline. Beneath his feet he can hear a muffled rush of air, and the faintest screamed profanity from Crowley.

He needs to get this under control, and he needs to hurry.


	3. The End

Crowley has been demeaned in all sorts of new, creative ways upon meeting the Winchesters, but never before did he feel quite so violated. This dank, metallic, depressing dungeon is his home-sweet-home now, and he had come to accept such conditions during the endless hours he spent sitting amidst the chill and the darkness. But under no terms did he agree to a roommate.

“ahh’DSSHH!”

Definitely not a roommate sneezing bouts of snow all over the damn place with surprising, infuriating regularity. It would be just like the angel to hold out for the Winchesters’ sake, and then once out from under their simpering scrutiny, rip loose with a righteous fury.

“hh’JSHH!”

Rude, is what it is. Incredibly rude. Crowley hopes he knows that.

“I hate you,” he says, then screws his eyes shut as he sees Castiel's expression weaken again.

“hht’TTSSCHH!”

A rush of freezing air and sleet blasts Crowley in the face, and he slowly blinks his eyes a few times to clear them, since his hands are bound to the chair. Castiel, meanwhile, sinks into his cot with a pleasant sigh.

“It really is a peculiar sensation,” he remarks, delicately scrubbing a hand under his nose. Crowley shakes a bit of snow off his hair with a few violent tosses of his head, then glowers. Castiel continues unperturbed, looking stupidly cozy on his cot even though the temperature in the dungeon is frosty. “I've decided I don't dislike it.”

Crowley rolls his eyes as far as they will go, but finds even that is not satisfactory enough. How long will he be subject to his drivel? He almost prefers the sneezing over Castiel’s commentary.

“…ht’CHHSSHH!!"

Almost. Crowley flinches from another rush of snow, noting that it seems to be getting wetter. Less solid. Hopefully that means the virus is beginning to fade. Otherwise, Crowley will have to track down that demonic pig-sticker and stab himself to death. As Castiel sniffles, Crowley feels himself shiver against his chains. His skin looks nearly white in the dim glow of yellowed lights, bits of moisture sparkling on the backs of his fingers, or darkening the legs of his pants.

Hell had been chilly, but this was just arctic. Crowley’s hands tighten into fists, the chains tinkling delicately against one another as he takes a slow, deep breath. When he lets it out, it’s like he’s blowing out white smoke. His bindings leave so little room for him to shift in his seat, but his clothes are soaked from all of the slush. It’s hardly comfortable. Not that he should be complaining, what with the torture he has both undergone and inflicted on others. This is nothing to him. Just a bit of cold, a bit of damp. Nothing like hellfire licking at your skin.

“AAH’TTSCHHH!”

That sneeze catches him unawares and he takes the full brunt like a heavy tidal wave. Before he can summon up any sort of calm, Crowley finds himself shrieking at the top of his lungs, “Would you cover your damn mouth, you worthless scum?!”

When he opens his eyes again, Castiel is smirking at him from the cot, clearly enjoying himself. Crowley had no idea, until this moment, the angel could be such a prick. Sure, this is the man that had screwed him over more times than Crowley could count - had bullied him, threatened him, tried to kill him plenty of times - but Crowley has never known him to be impish.

He blames Squirrel. Moose is too sensible to have such a horribly annoying influence.

“Apologies, Crowley,” Cas says, and Crowley knows he’s not the least bit sorry at all. “They come upon me so quickly, it’s difficult to catch them in time.”

“That’s a load of bollocks!” Crowley growls, practically shaking in his chains he’s so mad. “You’re doing it on purpose!”

“Am not.”

“You are so!”

Castiel’s eyes begin to flutter, but he’s still grinning. Crowley notices a moment too late that the menace is trying to finalize his aim.

“NO. NO! Nonononononono-”

“HAAH’JSSHHHUU!”

“HELL’S BELLS,” Crowley screeches, frantically spitting. “I’VE SWALLOWED SOME, DAMN YOU.”

Castiel throws his head back in honest laughter, the sound of it crackly and booming through the small space, while Crowley just sputters and swears. Somehow this day has made it into his top 5 worst days ever. At this point, he’s prepared to start begging Moose to knock him unconscious for the remainder of Castiel’s stay.

He freezes when he feels a presence in front of him, and when he looks up, he’s face to face with Castiel’s bright, mischievous blue eyes. And his roguish smile.

Crowley really, really misses Hell.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

When Dean wakes up, it’s to a splitting headache and to Sammy holding a log like he’s presenting Simba to the sun on Pride Rock. Well, wait. No. When his vision clears and he blinks a couple times, it looks a lot less reverent and a lot more hopeful. Desperate even. Is Sam chanting Latin? It sounds kinda Latin. Ugh, his head-…

Dean shifts, and finds that his wrists and ankles are bound to the posts of his own four poster bed. In his room. And through the receding fog of his thoughts, Dean struggles with the insatiable need to celebrate Christmas. It’s like a haze, an instinct, encroaching from a long-forgotten excitement he had abandoned as a kid. Something woken in him that had been dead in the ground ever since Mom burned away and the world changed.

The sensation of pine sap on his fingers while hunting for a tree. The hustle-and-bustle of last minute bargain shopping on Christmas Eve. Tinny TV specials that never seem to lose their charm. Deep, velvet voices of the best of the best singing all the classics over the Impala radio. Cold bite of the snow. Warm scent of cookies through the kitchen. Being together.

Like a siren song in the back of his head – he cannot shake it. He just wants to lay down and submit to it. Embrace it. Love it. Let it bundle him up and take him wherever it wishes to go. But then there is Sammy snapping fingers in his face, Yule Log forgotten on the bedside table.

“Dean? Dean, finally, I was getting worried, man,” Sam is saying, peering down at him. “I’ve been trying to cure you with this shitty Yule Log ritual. Is it working?”

Dean’s eyes watch the swaying locks of Sam’s hair, the brown fly-aways making him think of tinsel. Sam’s deep eyes are bright like glass Christmas ornaments. Blinking hard, the elder Winchester tries to get it together. It’s hard. Faintly, he can feel the strong hold of the Santa hat on his head.

“Sammy,” he rasps, muscles tensing. “Get it off.”

Sam sighs, reaching to tug on the hat for what must be the billionth time. He even tries to get his fingers under the edges. “I can’t, Dean! It’s been glued to your head since you put it on, and there’s not a single thing in the lore about it.”

Still, Dean sounds more coherent than he was before getting knocked out. Less manic and more panic. It’s clear in the way Dean’s biceps tense and untense, clear in how he uneasily shifts against the sheets. Just then, Sam feels an idea take hold – what if Dean could fight it? Sometimes, it can be as simple as that. You just have to rip yourself out of the curse, or whatever this happened to be. Then bam, you’re cured.

“Can you fight it?” he asks, frowning as Dean tries to sit up, pulling at his restraints. Sam isn’t sure if tying him down was the best idea, but he worried that his brother would become some sort of homicidal Christmas tornado if he woke free.

“I dunno,” Dean grunts, staring firmly up at the ceiling. He can hear the haunting tune of ‘Silent Night’ somewhere in the back of his head. Sharply shaking himself, his fists clench as he swallows, feeling how parched his throat is. “Can ya get me some egg nog?”

Sam sighs somewhere to his right. “No. No egg nog. You need to sweat this out of your system.”

Dean briefly considers answering with, Oh? Like you and your demon blood?, but manages to bite his tongue before he says it aloud. There’s a cool sheen of sweat on his forehead, his body achy and begging for something red-and-green and cinnamon-smelling. Anything wintery. He knows it’s just the damn Santa-curse making him so on edge… though he’d give his left arm for a stocking-full of candy.

“This sucks…”

“I know, but this whole thing started because you gave into Christmas cravings,” Sam says, feeling rational. The more he talks, the more sense this all begins to make. There is no cure for this madness other than Dean just resisting the influence. Something tight in Sam’s chest relaxes. “So just lay there and… I don’t know, think about something else. Get your mind off it.”

“You’re being a Grinch, Sam.”

“And you’re being insane, Dean. Seriously. Stop thinking about it.”

They fall into a frustrated silence. It’s hard to think about other things, Dean decides as he stays still and uncomfortable against the mattress. Suddenly there seems nothing more interesting than all the many aspects of that single, jolly holiday, and Dean catches himself mentally reciting ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.’ And by then he’s only three lines from the end. Damn, this is bad.

Both brothers jump when a muted rumble interrupts the quiet. Sam rubs his face with both hands while Dean glances around.

“Was that the reindeer on the roof? Holy shit, is the sleigh out there!?”

“Dean! No Christmas, remember?”

“Uh. I mean, what was that clatter?... I should rise from my bed and see what is the matter.”

Sam rests his forehead in one hand, trying to keep it together. How is this even a thing? Why? Why is there an enchanted hat that makes his brother some sort of Christmas junkie? Because on one hand, it’s just stupid enough to be hilarious. And on the other, it’s giving Sam a migraine.

“It’s Cas.”

Dean jerks against his bindings, going from awestruck to furious in less time than Sam can blink. “Cas hijacked my sleigh?”

“Get it together,” Sam says as his eyes flick across Dean’s ropes, assuring himself they are indeed fastened tightly enough. “There’s no sleigh. Cas is in the dungeon sneezing his head off.”

When Dean gives him a pinched, searching expression, Sam elaborates. “Sneezing snow, remember?”

There’s another fierce sound, and Dean notices that it is indeed coming from the down direction, not up. His earlier memory of Cas achoo-ing a blizzard across the lawn resurfaces, though he recoils suddenly at the implications of making snow angels in it.

“Was I playing in his snot earlier?”

Sam, annoying little brother that he is, just snorts. “Pretty much. Looked like you were having the time of your life too.”

Faintly he realizes that Sam has changed him out of his mud-soaked clothes, but he can still feel some of the dried residue along his skin – places like his hairline, the grooves of his fingers, under the curve of his neck. His deeply rooted germaphobia kicks in, and Dean squirms.

“Ugh, that’s rank,” he growls, tossing a bit. “Lemme up, I wanna shower.”

“Not until that hat’s off.”

“Sammy, I’m serious.” And Dean looks serious too – with stone-cut eyes and clenched jaw. Sam kicks back and crosses his arms, confident that Dean won’t be going anywhere no matter how big of a tantrum he throws.

“So am I.” Sam watches Dean start to thrash, looking for a weak point where he wouldn’t find any. It’s not something the younger Winchester wants to do to his brother, but he’s convinced that if Dean can just get Christmas off his mind for a few minutes they’ll be in the clear. What better opportunity than the one presented here? At the moment, Dean can do nothing but think about the evidence of Cas’s supposed ‘snow-snot’ all over his skin; gross as that is, it’s enough of a distraction that Sam can foresee the end to this hat hell if the disgust persists

“It was seriously gross, dude,” Sam says, observing as Dean arches his back to try and roll onto his side. “You were laughing, rolling around, probably got some in your mouth…”

Dean yells out as if he’s been stabbed, face growing red from exertion as he fights. “STOP. STOP TALKING.” He swears under his breath, the ball of the Santa hat bouncing all around as he looks for a new angle. Any kind of leverage to free himself. Sam keeps his eye on the swatch of red fabric and white puff ball.

“Even when it all started to melt, you were still out there. Practically bathing in it.”

Dean’s now shouting incessantly, in that mode where no amount of noise will drown out the images in his head. Sam used to love to do this when he was a kid – he could always get back at Dean for any amount of pranks or brotherly insults if he just squicked him out enough with words like these. Eventually Dean would plug his ears and shut his eyes, unable to cope. As much as he pities Dean in this moment, it’s still a little funny. And effective for freeing him of this damn hat situation.

“You can feel it right? It’s still there, I didn’t wash it off,” Sam says, reaching for the Santa hat as Dean pauses just a second for breath. He grips the ball, tugging a little as he speaks loudly over Dean’s voice. “You're still covered in it!!”

“SAM!” Dean bellows, voice breaking as he carries off into just torrent of wordless yells and swearing. Sam pulls, pulls harder, and finally…FINALLY… the hat comes off. Pops off like cork, and Sam staggers back onto his ass with it in his hand. He holds it far away from himself while Dean catches his breath, chest heaving. His face is all blotchy from shouting so much, but he seems a little calmer.

Sam drops the hat onto the seat of his chair, approaching Dean as he uses a pocket knife to snap the rope. “Sorry about that. I know you hate that stuff, but it did distract you long enough to – ”

“Piss off,” Dean grunts, snatching his arm to his chest just as soon as it’s free. He’s all jerky and offended, like a wet cat. Shuddery too, probably from how much he wants a shower. “Just hurry.”

Sam drops it, knowing Dean isn’t exactly proud of his inability to deal with disgusting shit. It embarrasses him more than anything. Once all the ropes are cut, Dean’s up on his feet and shivering a bit, shaking off the feelings of revulsion. His eyes drift to hat on the chair.

“Burn that shit,” he says, gruff. Then shoulders by Sam with a disdainful grunt. “I’m showering.”

Sam smirks as he snatches up the hat, wondering if he should salt it first.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Both Dean and Sam are surprised to see Castiel emerge from the dungeon himself, looking worlds better than he had that morning. His skin is rosier, his hair back to its natural color, his nose a bit red but he no longer sounds stuffed-up or hoarse. Cas stretches as he comes to stand by the couch where the brothers sit, each of them nursing a mug of hot cocoa before a raging fire. Upon the logs sits the charred remains of the Santa hat. Cas notes all details of the scene before him, studying the fire in particular before Sam speaks.

“Feeling better, buddy?”

Cas glances to Sam, breaking into a soft, thankful smile. “Yes, much better. I believe the essence has run its course. And Dean, you are feeling better as well?”

Dean lifts his mug as if to toast to their health, looking tired and perhaps a bit strung out, but overall less crazed than he was all afternoon. “Yep. The hat may have Kris Kringled me, but now it’s barbeque.”

Sam takes another sip of his cocoa, allowing himself a rare moment of relaxation after such a long day. Dean is fine, if a bit pissed. Cas is fine, even happy. They have a fire going, even though it is summer. The chill Cas left in the dungeon has followed him up through the floorboards and vents, so they convince themselves the flames aren’t a waste.

As Sam cracks open a book and Dean disappears with Cas into the kitchen to make some more cocoa, no one gives a second thought to the King of Hell down in his chains, quivering incessantly in his damp clothes. His little metal room, cold on the warmest of days, is now an icebox. He can’t keep his teeth from chattering, and the only thing Crowley finds himself thankful for is that no one else is down here to see this. He’s pathetic.

Stupid Castiel. Soaking the place and then having the audacity to just leave when he finally felt well again. Leaving Crowley down here with his room ankle-deep in water and melting slush. Eyes flickering closed, he tenses with a shuddering breath. Then –

He sneezes.

Blinking his eyes open again, Crowley sniffles thickly, swallowing after. “Damn.”

THE END


End file.
